I'm Major Jackson, and this is the slowdown.

A boy my age, Troy, punched me so hard in the stomach I could not breathe for five seconds.

He called out, Punch Block.

This was a popular game in my neighborhood.

If you stepped into a pavement square that had a crack, a group of boys punched until you fought your way out.

Supposedly, these boys were your friends.

Troy hit me again, this time on my side.

He called out again, Punch Block.

He was a twin.

I liked his sister.

We did our homework together after school.

Instead of going to the arcade with Troy, she and I increasingly sat on their steps and read Shakespeare.

This day, Troy said, my father said if you are going to be around his daughter, we need to toughen you up and

threw another punch. I finally fought back and wrestled my way off the pavement.

Troy wiped blood from his nose, put his arm around my shoulder and said, way to go, Sugar Ray.

When people talk about masculinity, I think of this moment. Indctrination into gendered behavior of violent preparedness and aggression were peppered throughout my adolescence.

Where my friends tied masculinity to physical toughness, my aunts tied it to financial independence.

They frequently expressed admiration for cousins who did not spend money on frivolous items,

who saved up to buy a home or car.

Recently, I discussed gender with my friend Josh. On his 11th birthday, his father purchased his

first gun. They bonded at the shooting range. Josh is a great guy. He does not express his masculinity

through his guns. But I have been in the presence of men in open carry states who brandished

...